"Go to New Orleans. Build a new life for yourself there. I cannot help you, Leon, because I have killed a man. I must pay the penalty for that."
"No, no! You despair too easily. Tell me the truth. Tell me what he did to deserve what you did to him. You only have to tell me and, I know, you will be safe."
Was it true ? she wondered. Would people understand if she said to them: "He was about to blackmail my father, and I could not endure it because it was through me that he was in a position to do so?"
They would be sorry for her if he had jilted her. What if they knew she had killed him to save her father's good name ?
They would be sorry still. They would punish her, but mildly, because Leon and Fermor would have the best men to defend her.
But how could she say this without divulging her father's name! And if she did that it would seem that she had killed Thorold Randall in vain.
"Melisande," Leon was saying, "you must not despair. We will fight this together, and I shall be waiting for you ... no matter how long."
She wanted to live, how desperately she wanted to live; yet she was firm in her determination. She would not tell the truth. She would not mention her father's name. And how could they—all the best lawyers in the land—work for her if she would not help them ? How could they arouse the public's pity, how could they plead with the jury, how could they influence the judge, when she would not tell them why she had killed Thorold Randall?
She lay in her cell—her own cell. Fermor had arranged that. Leon had wanted to, but Fermor had forestalled him.
There were letters from Fermor and Leon. There were more visits.
They were right when they said that money could do most things. It bought them many interviews with her.
They pleaded with her; they stormed at her; they cajoled and they grew exasperated.
"This silence is madness!" cried Fermor.
He came with his lawyer, the best he could find.
"We must have a sympathetic case," said the lawyer. "If you plead guilty and offer no defence, the verdict is a foregone conclusion."
"Don't be an idiot!" stormed Fermor. "Speak . . . speak . . . you little fool! What did he do to you? Why did you shoot him?"
She often thought of those little scraps of paper which had fluttered away on the breeze. If someone could have found them and pieced them together, they would have the answer to the mystery.
She would never give it.
There came that day which she had dreaded and for which she yet longed. It was the beginning of the end.
She saw them in the court—Fermor, Leon; and there was Genevra with Clotilde and Polly—and yes, Fenella herself!
They all seemed so remote; she was scarcely aware of them. They belonged to another life, it seemed—the life before she had known Thorold Randall.
She looked indifferently at the judge and the jury. She listened to the procedure. It was short. It had to be short, for there was no defence.
She was addressed: "Prisoner at the Bar, you stand accused of the murder of Thorold Randall. Are you Guilty or Not Guilty?"
And she answered as clearly as she had intended: "Guilty."
She did not hear the words which were spoken. Her memories were passing before her eyes in a succession of rapid pictures: Sir Charles outside the auberge ; their meeting in the Convent; Paris and the dress shop; Trevenning: Fermor and Leon there; Fenella's salon; Fermor in the little house which he had provided for her; Fermor loving, Fermor tender, Fermor fierce, Fermor mocking. She saw Mr. Lavender, leering at her, and she remembered the moment when her fingers had first closed over the pearl-handled pistol—her friend which had saved her from Mr. Lavender, which had saved her for death. She was in the Park facing Thorold. "You shall not . . .
3IO IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
you shall not. . . . Swear to me . . . Swear. ..." And that was the end, the end of the story which had begun in Vauxhall Gardens.
At times it had seemed as though it were a comedy, but it was the last act that decided.
The judge was putting on the black cap. Vaguely she heard those dreadful words: "This Court doth ordain you to be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead. . . . And may the Lord have mercy on your soul."
There was silence in court. She looked at Fermor. His face was blank at first; then suddenly it was angiy and determined. He was determined that she should not die. She knew it and exulted in that.
Leon had buried his face in his hands.
And then a wardress was at her side, leading her away.
TWO
ienella was lying on her chaise longue. Polly sat beside her. Neither of them spoke. Polly's eyes were red; Fenella had no words to say for she felt that if she attempted to speak her emotions would choke her.
She would never feel completely happy again. This should have been a triumphant time, for Genevra was about to marry her lord; and that was a matter for rejoicing, congratulation and amusement; but how could she feel triumph when one of her girls was to be hanged for murder?
And I, in my way, am to blame, thought Fenella. I did not know her. I did not understand her. So many of us are to blame, and that beautiful child will suffer. There can never be real peace for me again.
Polly buried her head in the shawl which she had placed over Fenella's legs and began to weep again. Fenella touched her head. She said: "Don't, Polly. It's unnerving. Why has she let this happen? Why couldn't she defend herself? They could at least have saved her life. Why, Polly, why?"
Polly looked up. "There was a reason, Madam dear. There must have been a reason why."
"Yes, there was a reason. Fermor could not make her talk . . . even Fermor. Polly, she will haunt me all my days. I shall never forget her. I have been careless with her."
"It wasn't your fault, Madam dear. No one could have been
kinder. She ran away from you, but that was because of the young man and his wife. You never did anything you have to feel reproaches for."
"But, Polly, we let her go."
"We tried to find her," said Polly quickly.
"We didn't try hard enough, Polly. We shrugged our shoulders, didn't we? We said, 'Well, she won't marry Beddoes and there's nothing we can do.' And Polly, we knew, didn't we, that she was meeting Fermor? We ought not to have allowed it. But we liked him.... He was charming and we thought it amusing to watch what happened. We were like two children putting spiders in a basin to see what happened. Well, we've seen now. One of them is married to a crippled wife; the other will hang by the neck."
"No, Madam, don't say it. It can't be. Somebody's got to do something."
There was a knock on the door. It was Genevra, her eyes swollen.
She said: "There's a gentleman to see you. He won't wait. He's got to see you right away."
"But I can't see anybody."
"He says you must. He says it's urgent. It's about her . . . about Melisande."
He was already in the room; he looked so haggard and old that Fenella scarcely recognized him.
Then she rose and said: "All right. All right, Polly . . . Genevra, leave us together."
And when the door closed she said: "So, Charles, you have come."
"I heard the result," he said.
"Well?"
"Fenella, we can't let this happen. Something has to be done."
"Several of those who love her have tried."
"But ... it can't happen. How did it happen?"
"You have been a long time coming. I thought you would have come before."
"I never thought that . . . this would happen. I thought ... as she is so young . . ."
Fenella turned slighdy away from him and said: "I take some blame to myself, but I should not like to be in your shoes."
"She is my daughter," he said, "my own child."
"Your own child . . . and to die on the gallows!"
"Why did she
do this! Why did she do such a thing?"
"We don't know and she won't say. But depend upon it, we all have driven her to it in some way. I with my carelessness ... I did not look after her as I should. I, with my salon, which is half fashionable drawing-room, half brothel ... I, who am half mother half procuress ... I have had my share in this. Fermor with his
desire for her . . . that fool Beddoes . . . that Frenchman who has been here talking until I feel I shall go mad . . . they have all played a part in this. But you . . . you are the chief mourner. On you rests the chief blame."
"It began by my meeting Millie there in Vauxhall Gardens. It was wrong. It was wicked. This is my punishment."
"Your punishment! Meeting Millie! What nonsense! Why, you might have had a happy daughter. Poor little Melisande! At first she was the orphan; then she found she had a father who thought so highly of his reputation and his standing that he must send her to a woman like me, because he could think of no other way of ridding himself of her."
"Stop! Stop! I tried to do what I could for her. I tried to arrange a marriage for her ..."
"Yes, yes. And she discovered that a young man was being bribed to take her. That turned her to Fermor. No wonder she was tired of the world. No wonder she will not speak. Oh, Charles, I saw her in the dock. She did not seem to be listening to the judge. She was standing calm and quiet, as though her thoughts were far away and she was waiting almost eagerly for death. It was so pitiable. She . . . so young . . . only eighteen! Oh Charles, so young to die . . . and so tragically to want to die."
"Fenella, there must be something we can do."
"Charles, you go to her. It will comfort her. You are her father. You go to her. I believe she would wish to see you."
He shrank from her and she laughed suddenly in mocking anger.
"That would be tragic, wouldn't it? You might be seen. Why is Sir Charles Trevenning visiting a young girl who has been found guilty of murder and sentenced to death ? Oh no, you must not be seen. There must be no rumours concerning you. Your daughter can hang by the neck until she is dead, but that is of small account as long as no one knows she is your child."
"Fenella, I beg of you, be silent. I will go. Of course I will go."
She stood up and stared at him.
He took a few steps towards her, holding out his arms. She ran to him and threw herself against him. She was crying.
He said: "Melisande . . . Melisande . . . my daughter ... my little girl."
She looked at him, smiling. "We are as we were in Paris. Do you remember ? Then I had to pretend . . . that you were my father. You were bringing me from my finishing school, and we pretended, so that people should not talk."
"It was no pretence," he said.
"No," she said, "it was no pretence."
"I did what I thought would be best for us ... for us both."
She nodded. "Yes. You wanted me to have a husband . . . and a dowry."
"You are trembling."
She answered; "It would have been so much better if you had not talked of a dowry."
She saw how old he had become. Anxiety had put those lines about his face and the shadows under his eyes.
"You should not have come," she said. "So much leaks out. They write in the papers about me."
"It does not matter. It does not matter now."
"But they will wonder why you ... a man in your position . . . should come here."
"Then they must wonder."
"You must not come again."
"I wish I could stay with you all the time."
"Oh, no, no. It would do no good. I am happy because you came. I always wanted to have a parent. Mother . . . father ... it did not matter which. All the children in the Convent were like that. Home! They wanted homes. The nuns were good to us . . . but homes . . . fathers . . . mothers, sisters and brothers . . . they were like water in the desert, warmth in the snow, water to the thirsty, food to the hungry. Do you understand?"
"I understand. And I am sorry . . . deeply sorry."
"Why? You must not be sorry. I was one of the lucky ones. There was a little girl, Anne-Marie. Her rich aunt came for her. But you came for me . . . my own father. That was better than a rich aunt. Yet I did not want you to come here."
"Why not? Why not, Melisande?"
"Because people may say: 'Why did he visit her? What is the relationship between them?' And then everything would have been in vain."
"What do you mean ... in vain?"
"That people must not know. There would be scandal. Think of your life at Trevenning. There you are so respected. Think of your friends . . . your position . . . your relations ... all those things which mean so much to you. It was because of that that I am here now. It was because of that that I killed him."
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"You killed him for that ... for me . . .? I don't understand, Melisande."
"It does not matter now, does it? All is over and done. I know now what you have done for me . . . how much. ... I know what it must have cost you to come to the Convent, to sit outside the auberge . . . you, who thought so highly of your position. Yet you came to see me, you ran risks for me. I never forget it. I was hurt when you sent me away from Trevenning. I was hurt because the opinion of the servants meant more to you than my presence there. But now I understand. I understand so much. I have had nothing but kindness from you. I was only your illegitimate daughter, wasn't I? I was not the same as Caroline. And you did so much for me. You were so concerned. You tried to find me a husband and would have given me a dowry. And now you come here and see me, and you risk so much. It grieves me that you should risk so much. It was for you that I killed him. For you . . . and perhaps for myself. . . for my self-respect, I think. Yes, I think that was the main reason. I had betrayed you. I had told him your name and what you were to me . . . and he threatened that he would demand money . . . money from you for the rest of your life."
He was silent, staring at her.
She went on gently: "You must not be upset. It is all over. I do not think I shall mind dying. It is all over very quickly, they say. And I think they will be gentle with me. Oh, don't, I beg of you ... I cannot bear to see you weep. You, who are proud and so full of dignity. Please . . . please ... do not, I beg of you."
But he could not restrain his tears. He put his arms about her and murmured brokenly: "Melisande . . . Melisande . . . my daughter."
It was she who had to comfort him.
They sat round Fenella's table—Fermor, Charles, L6on and Andrew Beddoes.
Fenella looked from one to another, her eyes alert. Charles had come to her from his interview with Melisande, and Fenella had lost no time in summoning the others.
"Now," she cried, "we know the reason. We know why she killed him. Mr. Beddoes, you are a lawyer. What next?"
Andrew said: "If we had known before. . . . If she had spoken. . . . But she has been sentenced to death. ..."
"It is no use going over what has happened," said Fermor roughly. "What can we do next?"
"If we can save her from death . . ." began Leon.
"If we can save her!" cried Fermor. "Of course we can save her. We must save her. If necessary ..."
Fenella laid a hand on his arm. "Fermor, be calm, my dear. You are thinking of storming the prison, riding away with her. These are modern times and you cannot do such things. But what we can do is consider this quietly, logically, and with all speed. We must approach this in the modern way. We must not think of breaking into her prison, but breaking through rules and regulations. Our means will not be ladders and ropes, but influence in the right quarters. That is how things are done in the modern world. So let us be calm and think clearly."
"He was a blackmailer," said Andrew. "Blackmailers are despised by all decent people. There is little sympathy for them, and leniency is often shown to those who attack them. And in her case it was not even to save herself that she killed this man. She was thinking of her father. If she had said so
. . . oh, if only she had told this in the court. . . most certainly it would not have been the death sentence."
"It is no use saying //*!" cried Fermor. "She has! And what now ? What do we do ? We sit here saying if... if... if! How does that help her? We've got to get her out."
Andrew said: "She would, of course, be sentenced to a term of imprisonment ... no matter what motive she had. No one can kill and escape altogether."
"How long would she . . .?" said Leon. "How long?"
"Ten years perhaps. Who knows?"
"Ten years!" cried Leon and Fermor together.
Fenella said: "Now this is not getting us far. Let us deal with the first thing first. She must be reprieved. I have made many friends over the last twenty or thirty years. I have always believed that a word in the right quarter ... a little discreet suggestion by someone in a high place ..."
They were all looking at her eagerly.
"Please do not hope for too much," she went on. "I cannot say whether I shall succeed. I can only try. I shall go now ... at once . . . to see an old friend of mine . . . someone who, I know, will help me if he can. I am going to plead with him . . . beg him ... go down on my knees to hirn. I am going to show him how I consider myself involved in this. I am going to tell him the whole story. I am going to make him do all that can be done ... if I am able to. Charles, I want you to come with me. I want you to wait in the carriage
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while I see him. I shall not ask you to come in with me at first, but perhaps later I may need you. He will have to know whose daughter she is. I must hold nothing back from him."
Charles rose and Fenella, standing beside him, laid her hand on his arm.
She said: "Everybody in this room is fond of her. There is not one of us, I know, who would not do everything in his power to save her."
"Everything I have ..." said Charles.
She looked at him and thought: Your fortune, your name . . . everything. . . . That is how it is with all of us. We are so shallow in our ordinary lives, but when tragedy comes, when there is need to show the best in ourselves, we find that we are, perhaps, a little better than we thought we were.
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